Archive | June, 2012

Horse Man & Tall Man

30 Jun

Day four of my OKCupid marathon was supposed to be Horse Man, aka the Moroccan keychain phantom, aka the idiot with the “intense nasal infection.”  He had rescheduled with me four times over the course of far too many months, and I was starting to wonder if he was actually a real person.  He told me he would meet me at a bar around the corner from where I work, so it wasn’t out of my way to drop by and see if he actually showed up.  Nope.  He texted me saying he would be twenty minutes late, then (twenty minutes later) said he was sorry but his childhood friend had surprised him and he needed to reschedule again.  I told him not a chance and that either he is not real/someone screwing with me, or he is the most socially inept person ever.  I didn’t care one bit about being stood up, however, because I was tired and now had the night off!   And he looked like a pink horse balloon with teeth in his pictures.  Even I don’t like keychains THAT much.

Day five was the first time that I have gone on two dates in one day.  I’ve heard legends of ambitious internet daters who have taken on this challenge, but I never had the balls.  Or the energy.  My first date was at 4pm in Chelsea with Tall Man.  He was the tallest of all the tall men that had contacted me and his entire profile revolved around how tall he is and all the tall situations he gets himself into.  His story is similar to Horse Man’s in that he rescheduled with me multiple times, had just returned from traveling abroad, and had promised me a magnet from Uzbekistan (they don’t have keychains there).  Both of them sent me a million texts, and both of them said “Fantastic” in response to everything I said.  I half expected him to stand me up the way Horse Man had the night before.  He had suggested we meet at Starbucks, which sounded like the worst idea ever… so when I got off the train, I searched high and low for a bar.  Apparently everyone in Chelsea goes to the gym and doesn’t drink, because I passed about fifteen gyms, but had to walk seven blocks to find a bar.

Tall Man arrived, looking tall and smelling like aftershave.  He had forgotten to bring the magnet.  I was drinking a Bud Light when he arrived, which he teased me about.  The server came over and he ordered “a full-bodied white wine of your choice and a sparkling water with lime.  Sparkling.  Not still.”  Bear in mind we were in a sports bar surrounded by a bunch of old men watching soccer.  The server looked at him funny and told him they only had one kind of wine.  He rolled his eyes and said that would do.  Throughout our date, he continuously checked himself out in the mirror that was on the wall beside our booth.  His phone rang several times and each time he would say “Sorry, last time… I have to take this.”  Then, he would hang up, look down, mumble important business matters to himself for a few seconds, and tell me how busy he was working on this marketing campaign.  Squeezing his lime into his sparkling water, he told me that he played football in college, now worked for a very impressive marketing firm, and has been on OKCupid for over a year.  I’ve found in my field trials that men who have been on OKCupid for long periods of time are more likely to be assholes, crazy, or just looking for sex.  Tall Man was obviously on the prowl because, when I asked him what his name was short for, he answered “There’s nothing short about me, kiddo.  Maybe after a few more rounds you can test that verification.”  He made sure to remind me multiple times that it’s not difficult for him to get women, he is just so busy with his job, traveling, and all of the charity work he does for underprivileged children and endangered species.  He joined OKCupid because he was tired of having one night stands with girls in bars, and said he thinks women like him because he’s tall and has big hands… “and you know what they say about men with big hands.”  Yeah, big hands- big ego.  I told him a few of my OKCupid stories and he said “Clearly you need to have better taste in men.  I’ll help you with that.”

The best way I can describe him is aggressively male, verging on controlling.  Whenever I spoke about myself, he found a flirty/joking way to cut me down.  Every time he joked around with me, he followed it with “That was a joke” or “I’m flirting with you,” but then justified why he was right, ie: “but you were the one who brought it up” or “you were the one who messaged me first.”  I am very mindful of men who do this because when I was younger, I dated a guy who was controlling and emotionally abusive.  The fact that I was getting that vibe from Tall Man in the first hour of knowing him was creepy.  He shared a story with me about how he was once almost picked up by a very believable tranny at a nightclub.  The bartender had warned him that the sexy woman he was talking to had a penis, but he accused him of being jealous and challenged him to a fist fight.  As he was about to leave with her, he got nervous and asked if she was a he.  “Didn’t you know?  I’m famous” she replied, running her hand up his leg to his package.  He thanked the bartender for warning him and left the bar.  “What if I had brought her home with me?!” he asked me, “What if stuff had happened between us before I found out she was a guy?  What if I had killed her?”  Yikes, that came out of nowhere.

We left after a second drink because he had to go meet some businessmen.  I pulled out my wallet to pay for my beers, but he stopped me, saying firmly “The man always pays.”  He walked me to the train and asked what I was doing for the rest of the night.  I said I was going to go home, shower, and make dinner and he said “Oh, you couldn’t shower before you met me?”  I told him I had been in Manhattan already and would’ve had to go all the way back to Brooklyn then back into the city.  He said “Oh God, you live in Brooklyn?  I’d have to renew my passport to go there.”  Oh please.  He told me he wouldn’t be able to take me out again for a couple weeks because he was traveling- this time to go rescue some sea turtles- but he was attracted to me and definitely wanted to see me when he returned.  As we approached the subway stop he said “So, are we going to have an awkward goodbye?”  I gave him a forced hug and breathed a big sigh of relief as I descended the steps down to the platform.  No, I did not want to hang out with him again.  He creeped me out and I had no interest in verifying whether his big penis jokes held any weight.

My second date that night was a repeat- with “Ricardo” from my “Always a Rodeo” post.  We went to a bar in my neighborhood, played cards and drank beer.  Not much to report… It was a relaxing end to the day after my stressful encounter with Tall Man.

And that concludes my five-day blind date marathon.  Five dates wiser and three keychains richer.


Grandma’s Bisexual Spice Rack

25 Jun

Last Wednesday night (aka day three of my OKCupid marathon) was a repeat.  I rarely go on second dates unless I actually like the person… which, unfortunately, doesn’t happen very often.

I had to go out with this guy (“Cody”) again because I couldn’t remember anything about him other than the fact that I had been intrigued by his bizarreness.  I usually take notes after all my blind dates (sometimes during, like in the case with Dennis the night before) and the only thing I had written down under Cody’s name was “Grandma’s bisexual spice rack.”  I knew he was bisexual and I remembered him smelling like a plethora of dried herbs… but I couldn’t remember anything else.  He had left the country a few days after we first met and it had been over a month since then.  Of course I asked him to bring me back a keychain, but my expectations were low.

We met at a bar in South Williamsburg, and as soon as I walked in, the bartender leapt out from behind the bar to give me a hug.  I hadn’t realized it, but this was the bar that my buddy who used to bartend across the street from my job had moved to.  I sat down next to Cody, who had also acquainted himself with the bartender.  I recognized right away that Cody was wearing the same shirt as last time- with an anatomical sketch of a ribcage covering the front.  He was cute, albeit a bit awkward in his body.  He kind of reminded me of a bald eagle who has seen too much.  He did have a nice head of hair, though.

I also remembered that he drank like a pro.  I think he had about six glasses of straight gin while I was there… and he had been at the bar drinking two hours beforehand.  I took it easy because I worked the next day, and because even I can’t drink like that.  We chatted for a couple hours, he showed me his new tattoo, and reminded me of the story of his worst blind date.  He had told me this story last time, but clearly I had been catatonic and didn’t remember anything.  Apparently, he went on a blind date with a cute girl from OKCupid and the first thing she brought up was her cat and how she suspected he had an undescended testicle.  (The cat, not Cody.)  She went on to tell him that she had to start sleeping on her stomach, because the cat wouldn’t stop humping her chest.  She said it had been getting better, however, since she bought him a stuffed monkey to hump instead.  Now, if your cat’s genitals aren’t a prime first date topic, I don’t know what is.  I have never seen a cat hump anything, but I did have a large Jewish Canadian attempt to ride my leg like a dollar store donkey the night before.

Around this part of the evening, he reached into his man-purse and bestowed upon me the KEYCHAIN JACKPOT.  I never knew airport souvenirs could excite me so much.  He had gone above and beyond the assignment and brought me back a keychain from Quebec, Munich, and Cologne.  He apologized that he had forgotten to get me one from London.

After that, it became more and more apparent just how intoxicated Cody was.  I offered to walk him home and told him I would meet him outside in one minute- I wanted to say goodnight to the bartender.  When I got outside, he was nowhere to be found.  I walked the perimeter of the block, but he had disappeared into the night.  I even tried calling him (I hate talking on the phone) to no avail.  He texted me the next day, apologizing for his weak liver and thanking me for a lovely evening.  It had been a lovely evening.  Contrary to what my blog may convey, it doesn’t take much to please me.  A good bar, some laughs, cat testicles, and a treasure trove of keychains usually does the trick.


99 Problems

24 Jun

As I descended the stairs to Fat Cat on Tuesday night, I had no idea what I was in for.  The full-figured 24-year-old Canadian I was meeting had chosen the venue, and my coworkers had warned me that I wasn’t going to like it.  They were right.

The place is a huge basement, with florescent lighting, pool and ping pong tables, darts, board games, and a slew of ratty couches.  It was packed with students and young professionals, and I was instantly transported to my college years in Missouri.  Except back then I was actually in someone’s basement, not a bar trying to look like someone’s basement.  I was afraid I would get bedbugs if I sat on any of the couches, so I waited for my date at one of the four lone barstools- feeling out of place without my messenger bag and ironic Salvation Army tee.  While I waited, a tiny man who looked like he had just hit puberty (and was wearing five shirts layered on top of one another) literally leap-frogged onto the barstool next to me and asked me if I came there often.  “No” I said a little too forcefully, simultaneously noticing the salsa band setting up in the corner.  Oh god.  I contemplated leaving as images of giant trouser gyration situations floated through my mind.

“Dennis” showed up and I reached my hand out for him to shake it, but he said “Oh, come on!” and pulled me in for a big hug.  He was wearing a shirt that wasn’t doing him any favors, a torn pair of stonewashed jeans, and a pair of two-foot-long sensible New Balances.  They were seriously the longest sneakers I ever did see.  I don’t remember why I had decided to meet him in person… probably because he was 6’3” and lately I’ve only been going out with men who are at least five inches taller than I am.  He had sent me a couple texts that week that just said “Hey you”, which seemed out of place coming from someone three years my junior.  I could tell he was a huge dweeb from his profile, but nothing could have prepared me for the next hour and a half.

Dennis bought us beers, took a large sip, swished it around in his mouth like mouthwash, and said “I’ll get the first round if you get rounds two, three, and four.”  I would soon find out that he wasn’t joking, as I ended up buying his next two beers.  We relocated to one of the couches, and I tried to figure out whether bugs were crawling on me or if it was just my leg hair blowing in the extreme wind gust generated by the industrial-strength fan.  He said “OK, now you have to tell me everything about yourself starting from the day you were born and don’t leave anything out, GO!”  I tried to give him a brief overview of my time here on Earth, but kept getting distracted by the queer faces he was making.  As I was talking, he kept turning his head away, then snapping it back to look at me with an open-mouth fascinated/surprised/insane look on his face.  Each time I would lose my train of thought due to his off-putting faces, he would histrionically tip his head to the side and in a loud, nauseating voice squeal “EEEELABORATE?!”  After awhile, I gave up and told him to talk about himself.

The tone of his voice sounded like Pete’s from “Mad Men” and he ended every sentence with a smack of the lips and an “Mmmhmm.”  He looked exactly like a cross between my high school choir teacher, a lava lamp, and Alf.  His job was something involving math, but no numbers… I stopped listening because the salsa band had begun to play and he had moved his leg onto mine in one fell swoop.  I jumped up and procured another round of beers.  When I returned, he again scooted himself close enough so that we were almost touching, and asked me about my theatre experience.  He shared that he had been involved in two plays during high school, one of which was “The Crucible.”  He had enjoyed being in “The Crucible” so much that he and his best friend would do poetry jams about it at their local coffee house.  He told me he didn’t know if I was prepared for his favorite line from their “Crucible”-inspired poetry because, to this day, he thinks it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.  I told him I was ready and he beamed and said “I got 99 problems but a WITCH ain’t one!” then proceeded to belly laugh for five minutes.  If someone informed me that a colossal meteorite was about to crash into Earth and kill us all, it would be funnier than that joke.

I guess at that point he had really warmed up to me, because he was on a roll with horrific jokes.  He made actor jokes, OKCupid jokes, jokes about how he had been wearing the same underwear for a week, and a boatload of jokes about being Jewish.  Each was about as funny as a concrete block.  One of his jokes revolved around the fact that he wasn’t brought up Jewish in a religious way– unless you count being raised on Mel Brooks movies.  I told him I have been obsessed with Madeline Kahn ever since I was a little kid, to which he responded “Who?”  I asked if he had ever happened upon movies like “Blazing Saddles”, “History of the World p.1”, or “Young Frankenstein” in his vast study of Mel Brooks films.

I went to the bathroom and when I returned, I lamented over how the ladies room was out of order, so I had to go in a stall next to a man peeing in a urinal.  Dennis scooted all the way over to my side of the couch, put his hand on my leg and said “Hey, if you want to see a penis, I’ll show you my penis.”  I told him to get back on his quadrant of the couch and stay there.  After that, I think he finally got the message that this was not going to go anywhere.  We left the bar and I walked five blocks out of my way so I wouldn’t have to take the train with him.

It’s not that I was mad I paid for his drinks… I just felt like someone should’ve paid me $20 to babysit him for 90 minutes.  Geez.  I still had four more blind dates to go this week and I was already exhausted.

OKCupid 101

18 Jun

OKCupid should really just hire me onto their staff.  I don’t want to brag, but I am pretty much a pro at this point… the fact that I am single is inconsequential.  For those of you who have never had the pleasure of experiencing OKCupid, allow me to briefly explain how it works.  After you fill out your initial profile, you have to “Improve your Matches” by answering as many multiple-choice questions as you wish.  The idea is that the more you answer, the higher potential match percentile you have with people.  There are questions regarding relationships, sex, common sense, and religion/politics/ethics, etc.  For example: “Which makes for a better relationship? A) Dedication, or B) Passion.”  You answer for yourself, then you choose which option you want your ideal partner’s response to be.  Then you rate (from Mandatory, Very Important, Somewhat Important, or Not at All Important) how important it is that he (or she) answer that way.  If you really want to be an eager beaver, you can add a brief explanation for your selection such as “Without passion, what else differentiates us from the pebbles at the bottom of my fish tank?!”  If you and some random user both select “Passion” and determine that it is “Very Important,” you’ve just upped your match percentile… and chances are it’ll totally work out between the two of you.

Another example:  “If you turn a left-handed glove inside out, it fits: A) On my left hand, or B) On my right hand.”  In this case, I would answer “A) On my left hand,” check the “Very Important” box, and then add my explanation: “My doctor messed up my prosthesis, so I only have left hands.”  And I’m one step closer to finding a match!

Or “Have you ever written anything on the wall of a toilet.”  My answer is no, and this is VERY IMPORTANT.  Explanation: “The porcelain throne is a sacred place; one that cannot be blemished, be it by sticker, sharpie, or rampant fecal matter.”

Or “Which of the two would be your preference: A lifetime supply of your favorite snack food or a 30-minute orgasm? A) Orgasm, or B) Duh, give me the snacks!”  VERY IMPORTANT.  Explanation:  “The orgasm is only 30 minutes.  Pshhhhh, the snacks are forever.”  You get the idea.

There are a lot of questions involving smelling and tasting different areas of your partner’s body and clothing, as well as many other fetish questions.  I generally steer clear of those questions, with the exception of these two (which are my favorite):  1. “How does the idea of getting slapped hard in the face during sex make you feel? A) Horrified, B) Aroused, C) Nostalgic, D) Indifferent.”  Clearly the correct answer here is “C) Nostalgic.”  Explanation:  “Awww, that reminds me of the way Uncle Gerald used to slap me across the face during our Sunday morning fishing trips, before he got fatally maimed by a bear upstate.”  2. “Would you consider a relationship where you would take on an exclusive sexual role as master or slave?  A) Yes, as the master only, B) Yes, as the slave only.”  Is this real??  Has one of the people in charge of making up questions for OKCupid been involved in such a relationship?  I love “Yes, as the master only” and how the only men I’ve seen answer this question are nerdy and scrawny.  At least they are laying all their cards right out on the table.

The question that always amazes me is “Do you think women have an obligation to keep their legs shaved?”  It is astounding how many men on the website answer this with “Yes.”  Maybe because of the way it’s phrased… but it makes me mad.  Sure, everyone prefers a shaved leg on a lady, particularly during the summer months…but obligated?  That’s a bit much.  Of course this was one of the questions that the JK/LOL man (from my latest Pick Up Lines post) answered.  In fact, I took note of his answers to several questions because they turned my stomach even more than when he said shopping with his mother was “gay”.  Here they are:  Do you think that women have an obligation to keep their legs shaved?  “Yes.  Don’t be a dyke.”  Do you think that a girl who has slept with 100 guys is a bad person?  “Yes.  Don’t be a slut.”  Could you date someone who does drugs?  “No.  Don’t be a crackhead.”  Would you consider having an open relationship?  “No.  Quit being a whore!”  Is astrological sign at all important in a match?  “No.  Stop being crazy.”  OKCupid thinks that I am an 80% match with this creep, but if I ever saw him in person I would probably punch him in his misogynistic face.

To end on a happy note, here are my favorite two messages from my inbox this week:

Guy 1: “Can I take you out for a drink?  Anything will beat my last two dates.  The first was a morbidly obese girl who sent me pictures of herself eating ice cream in only a bra & challenged me to an ice cream eating contest.  The second was a married couple and the husband kept calling me a bull stud and ordering me to plant my seed in his wife.”

Guy 2: “Hi there!  As my profile states, I have really big calf muscles.  Do you have any abnormally large body parts?”

I have a good feeling about this week.  My mystical tea leaves told me there will be at least one keychain coming my way!

If You Give a Lawyer a Pretzel

15 Jun

Filling up my key ring with a cornucopia of captivating keychains from around the world is harder than I thought!  I was supposed to meet a man on Monday night who allegedly has a keychain for me, but he canceled because he came down with an “intense nasal infection” as he put it via text message.  Sexy.

This man was actually the reason I got the idea for my keychain experiment in the first place.  After messaging me for weeks and never being able to meet up, I had dismissed him.  His messages would include fun facts that I really needed to know such as: how his dog was taking up all the space on his bed and how she knew he was typing about her, what he did every second of his Memorial Day weekend at his brother’s lake house, and how he was going to Morocco for a couple weeks.  When he was about to leave the country, he texted me asking if I wanted him to bring me back anything from Morocco.  Since, at this point, I had written him off completely, I said “Yes, actually.  I could really use some of those grains of rice with writing on them… or a keychain will do.”  Thus, the 2012 Keychain Experiment was born.  He messaged me immediately upon his return to America, telling me that he had an extra special keychain tucked away in his bag just for me.  Due to his contaminated nasal passages, I have yet to see the proof.

Casting aside my key ring in shame, I set up a quick substitute for Tuesday night so I wouldn’t go the whole week without a date.  This guy was a 6’5” Asian lawyer who selected “Used Up” for his body type (my favorite).  It was pouring rain all day on Tuesday, and by the time I arrived at the bar in the East Village I looked like a moist spaniel.  I looked for “Kyle” in the bar for a good five minutes before he emerged from a dark corner.  We sat down and he stared at me blankly and said “Ummmmmmm…” so I hinted that perhaps we should order a beer.  He was incredibly awkward and clearly did not know what to talk about, so naturally we spent a solid amount of time commenting on the fact that it was indeed raining out.  His behavior was surprising to me because his profile and messages had made him seem so funny and outgoing.

I hadn’t eaten dinner and had heard that this place offered an intriguing soft pretzel appetizer, so I ordered that for us to share.  When it arrived, I cheers’ed his pretzel and simultaneously noticed his obscenely long knuckle hair.  Seriously, I was afraid it was going to dangle in the cheese sauce it was so long.  I moved my gaze from his knuckles to the rest of his hands and observed that the back of his right hand was much hairier than the back of his left hand.  I considered that maybe the right hand could belong to the third primate on the evolution chart and the left hand looked more like the step just before man.

“I noticed you have a tattoo on your arm.”  I was jolted back to the conversation at hand (pun intended).  “Yes, I actually have a few.  Do you have any tattoos?”  “No way,” Kyle replied, “my dad is a huge homophobe, and he thinks that people with tattoos are even worse than gay people.”  I almost choked on my pretzel.  “Well, he sounds like a lovely man”  I managed to get out after taking a hearty swig of my beer.  What?  Who says that?  He spent the next few minutes telling me how much he liked my tattoos and how he wishes he could get one.  Did I mention he was 30 years old?

He ordered another round without asking if I wanted one (you don’t have to tell me twice) and I listened to him make smacking sounds with his mouth while he finished his soft pretzel.  I always say that chewing with your mouth open is comparable to nails on a chalkboard for me… but actually it might be worse.  I attempted to have an out-of-body experience while he finished eating, pretending I was on a boat in a peaceful sea.  This was difficult because, at this point,  he was leaning in very closely.

Kyle went to the restroom and when he returned, his dripping hand-hair alarmed me all over again.  I told him I needed to head home (I actually had plans with a friend in Williamsburg and needed to get a move on.)  He walked me to the L, we shared an awkward embrace and went our separate ways.  I thought about how, even if I had really hit it off with this man, his father would never accept me because of my tattoos, and none of my gay friends would be allowed at our wedding.  On the other hand, he was a lawyer… and our children would have really thick hair.

Ah well.  Godspeed, young scholar.  We’ll always have that soft pretzel.

The Lying Lumberjack

10 Jun

The other guy I was seeing back in January, around the time of Jazz Shoe Man, was a drunken woodworker named “John.”  I did not meet him on OKCupid, but rather through one of my sister’s friends.

In early January, my sister and I went out for drinks with a bunch of her boyfriend’s wood friends.  I had been eyeing one woodworker in particular all evening.  John was not at all the type I am usually attracted to.  He had a blonde buzz cut, baggy jeans, lumberjack shoes, and was shaped like a t-rex.  Regardless of all that, he was cute and also from Wisconsin, so I was sold.  That night at the bar, I only spoke to him briefly, and it was the first time I have ever seen someone’s eyes cross because they are so intoxicated.  At the end of the night, John was drunkenly chatting with a gay man at the bar, oblivious to the fact that we were all leaving.  One of his friends tried to pull him away, and the man asked “Aren’t you going to kiss me goodbye?”  To everyone’s surprise, John grabbed the man and gave him a big kiss on the neck before turning and exiting the bar.  All eight(?) of us piled into the back of my sister’s boyfriend’s van.  I was seated next to John, who kept putting his hand on my leg every time the van hit a bump in the road.

Since drunken tomfoolery is clearly a green light for me, I got home and expressed my interest in him the old-fashioned way:  by friending him on Facebook.  A day or two later, he sent me a message saying that he wanted to take me out sometime.  I was thrilled, but responded with a casual “I’ll be at the Rusty Knot on Friday night, if you’d care to join.”  That Friday, I went to the Knot with my sister, and he showed up with his usual crew.  He was already drunk when he got there, and continued to get more so as the night went on.  At one point, I was trying to talk to him, but he kept closing his eyes like he was about to pass out.  I got him a glass of water and asked if he needed to make a trip to the bathroom.  His friend noticed my dilemma and took him outside, where apparently he barfed all over the sidewalk.  He came back in, sat down next to me, and seemed completely sober again.  It was the fastest turnaround I’ve ever seen.  He told me that he was embarrassed and had really been looking forward to going out with me that night.  He asked if he could take me out on a real date because he really liked me and wanted to get to know me better.  During this conversation, he reached over and held my hand.  I was speechless.  Ten minutes earlier, I had been annoyed that he had gotten so drunk because I was excited to hang out with him.  Now, he was speaking clearly and I was enamored by how forward he was being about his intentions with me.

I went out to dinner with him a few days later.  We went to one of my favorite restaurants and then to few bars in the area afterwards.  He is the one who introduced me to the Polish dive with sleeping patrons and one dollar jello shots.  It was one of the best dates I had ever been on.  He was fun, sweet, and affectionate, and even his Wisconsin accent (which is usually a big turn-off) was charming.  We both got a little drunk that night, but he managed not to fall asleep at the bar, barf, or kiss any dudes.  Over the next few weeks, we spent a lot of time together.  I chose to overlook the fact that he hated cats, said “Ahyup” like a grandfather, usually had black pepper in his teeth, and had the sense of humor of a thirteen year old boy.  He chose to overlook the fact that I don’t like camping or fried meats, and that I was also seeing a teacher who wore jazz shoes.  His best friend told me how John frequently spoke about how much he liked me.

A few days before the Super Bowl, John came over and I made him dinner.  He complimented my cooking and told me that, even though there was going to be a Super Bowl party at his place, he wanted to come over to my apartment and watch it with us instead.  He had had several glasses of whiskey during dinner, and afterwards, we went to a bar around the corner for a beer… which, in hindsight, was not a wise decision.  We were about halfway through our beers, when I put my arm around him.  He had done this to me a hundred times and I didn’t think anything of it, until he pulled away and snapped “Don’t do that!”  I asked him what the problem was and he said “We don’t even know each other.  I mean, you don’t really even know who I am!”  He was drunk.  I reminded him that we had been seeing each other for about about a month and that he had just been all over me not thirty minutes earlier.  He put his head down on his arms and laid on the bar as I sat there in shock, with tears in my eyes.  The bouncer came over and told me I could stay, but he had to leave immediately.  We both left and returned to my apartment, where we slept on separate sides of my bed.  The next morning I woke up to him wrapping his arms around me, saying he was so sorry and he never wanted to upset me.  We got coffee together and he told me that he was concerned he had a drinking problem and wanted to take a break from going to bars.  I usually try to lighten the mood in uncomfortable situations… so I suggested some sober activities like apple-picking, going to the library, canoeing, and arm wrestling.  I found out later that he thought I wasn’t taking him seriously.

The night of the Super Bowl, I was pretty tipsy after having a few glasses of wine on an empty stomach.  Although John had been texting me all day while I was at work about being excited to watch the game together, he was incredibly stand-offish that evening.  After my sister went to bed, John told me he was going home.  I asked why he even came over in the first place if he was going to ignore me all night, and he said he was annoyed that I was drinking after he had expressed to me a couple days earlier that he didn’t want to drink anymore.  This was interesting because he had never asked me not to drink around him… AND he had had a couple beers during the game, as well.  After our argument, he ended up staying over, but left in the morning without even saying goodbye.  I couldn’t comprehend what had happened.  Less than a week prior, everything had seemed fine.  Even though he was obviously the one with the issue, I was convinced that it was my fault.  I texted him apologizing, and we made plans for him to come over a few days later to watch a movie.

The night he was supposed to come over, he texted me an hour before saying his body ached all over and that he had discovered he had a rare disease.  He had diagnosed himself using WebMD (because we all know what a reliable resource that is).  He told me that he had gotten up to come over, but couldn’t even walk to the door without bracing himself on the walls… so we were going to have to reschedule for the next night because he was staying in and doing some stretching.  He said he was sorry and he didn’t want me to think he was just trying to get out of coming over (which he clearly was).  The next day, he called me an hour before our plans to tell me that he had had a really stressful work week and that he needed some alone time because we had been moving so fast… but he would come over for dinner the following week.  I pointed out the fact that he had now canceled on me twice, and he promised he wouldn’t do it again.

The day he was supposed to come over for dinner, I had planned three different dishes to make and had gone to three different grocery stores to get all of the necessary ingredients.  I texted him earlier in the day to confirm our plans and he told me he would see me at 7pm.  Confident that there was no way he would stand me up again, I started cooking two hours before he was due to arrive.  At about 6:30, I got a text from John saying that he was sorry, but he didn’t feel “comfortable” coming over.  I called him (trying my hardest to remain calm) and asked why he was telling me this a half hour before he was supposed to be there, and after I had already been cooking for an hour and half.  He said he couldn’t explain it.  I hung up the phone, shaking because I was so upset that I had let someone ditch me three times in a matter of a week.  I wanted to throw all the food I had made out the window, into oncoming traffic, but instead I calmly put it all in the refrigerator and went to bed at 8pm.  As much as I tried to sort out what had happened in my head, it was no use.  I tried to blame it on the fact that he was trying to quit drinking… until a week later when his best friend mentioned to my sister that he was out getting drunk with John and their friends.  I felt like an idiot.  He had projected his issues onto me and I not only let him, but had given him way too many chances.

On the plus side, I had disabled my OKCupid account because I was seeing John… So now I could reinstate it, go out with more weirdos, and continue to write about it.   The other lesson learned from this experience is that just because someone is from Wisconsin, doesn’t mean they are awesome.  Up to this point, I always believed that to be the case.

Jazz Shoe Man

8 Jun

There has only been a small handful of guys from OKCupid that I have gone out with more than once.  “Greg” was one of them.  We met back in early January, and concluded our brief affair some time in February.  He was the first person from the website I actually dated, and the first person in the world to succeed in getting me to go to New Jersey.

Sadly I can’t remember what Greg said that initially sparked my interest.  I first met him at my friend’s bar one fateful evening after work.  She had texted me before I got there saying he had arrived and that he had dark circles under his eyes, but was otherwise pretty cute.  When I met him, I was pleasantly surprised because he was way better-looking in person than in his profile pictures.  I have found that the guys who look super attractive in their pictures often don’t look as good in person and vice versa.  Greg’s outfit was a little confusing, but I was willing to overlook the jazz shoes, black v-neck and distressed corduroys, and focus on his pretty eyes and nice lips.  (I would soon learn that he wore this exact same outfit every day.)  He was a teacher in New Jersey who wrote science fiction in his spare time.  We hit it off talking about writing, so I told him about my blog (a mistake I have yet to learn from).  He told me that he had only been out on a couple OKCupid dates, one of which was with a wild alcoholic who wouldn’t stop calling him because she was obsessed with hearing his sexy deep voice on the phone.  He also said that his last girlfriend before he joined OKCupid was a much older professor and he kept referring to himself as her “boy toy.”  He then ordered a huge plate of pickles and could not stop talking about how amazing they were.  As I was beginning to think Greg was a little odd, a few of my friends from college showed up and everyone was impressed at how cute and nice he was.

I think we went to the same bar again for our second date and more pickles were consumed.  The third time we went out, he took me to dinner at some restaurant in the East Village and then to the same bar I went to with that Indian man who fell in the street.  An hour later, he was hungry again so we went to a second dinner at a Mediterranean restaurant where he ordered figs wrapped in ham and I tried not to throw up.  I don’t know about you, but figs wrapped in ham are not an appropriate thing to order on a date!  What are you, a medieval knight?  We ended the night at Lit Lounge, which I was surprised to find was his favorite bar.  Here was a nerdy, serious, and responsible teacher in the middle of a cluster of  young, obnoxious college kids.  Needless to say, I let him grope me on one of the couches.

Either this time or the next, he came back to Brooklyn with me where he experienced some, um, technical difficulties.  The next couple dates we went on consisted of going out to dinner at this nice restaurant in the West Village, ordering a ton of food and wine, and him trying to convince me to go back to Hoboken with him.  Eventually, I relented.  He got so excited, he paid $65 to take a cab from the Village to his apartment in Hoboken, and bragged to the bewildered driver about how excited he was to be taking my “New Jersey virginity.”  Upon arriving at his place, I realized how much of an adult I had on my hands.  He was only a few years older than I, but owned a car, listened to a lot of NPR, had an adult job, and an adult apartment.  He had THREE shoehorns.  But it got weirder.  He kept the door to his bedroom locked when he wasn’t home.  I asked him if he was afraid his roommate was going to burglarize him and he said “Well, we’re friends now, but it started out as a Craigslist situation…so, you know.”  Whoa.  His room was probably the most depressing bedroom I have ever seen.  It was dark and drab, with old maps all over the walls.  On his desk, he had six pens lined up perfectly square next to a small stack of about six moleskin journals lined up perfectly square, but alternating the direction every other one was facing.  In the corner, there was a wooden drying rack with six of his signature black v-necks hanging on different rungs, but lined up perfectly square with one another.  While he was in the bathroom, I moved around the v-necks so that they were no longer in a perfect formation because I was starting to feel like I was in an episode of “The Twilight Zone.”  When he came back, he immediately noticed and said “Haha that’s awesome.”  That was his response whenever I made fun of him.  I also got “That’s awesome”s when I teased him about eating two dinners, being an older woman’s “boy toy”, his jazz shoes, and the fact that he used the word “breasts”.  Anyway, I assure you that the events that followed that evening were very serious and adult.  A little too much so, if you ask me.  The next morning I had to get up at 6am and take the PATH train back to Manhattan because he had to teach.  Before continuing on to Brooklyn, I went to The Container Store in Chelsea to cheer myself up.  I love The Container Store and the bright floor-to-ceiling stacks of containers of all shapes and sizes were a welcome sight after Greg’s depressing bedroom.

I ended up going back to Hoboken a week later because I was feeling blue that things had gone sour with this foolish woodworker I had also kind of been seeing.  (More on that another time.)  Greg took me to dinner at Maxwell’s, where I limited my drinking to two or three beers.  He had several beers AND a couple Tickle My Pickle martinis…which ironically prevented that from happening later on.  After his second martini, he began a lengthy conversation about his therapist’s thoughts on his love life and how he lets older women take advantage of him.  I asked him if he was an only child and he responded with “Yeah, how did you know?”  Back at his place, things weren’t working to his advantage again.  (I’m running out of vague ways to say this.)  I had long since given up and rolled over to go to sleep, but he was still nudging me, whining “At least let me fondle your breasts.”  That statement is about as sexy as a fig wrapped in ham.  We had to get up in three hours and he would not stop the prodding and whining.  I was so uncomfortable I thought about calling a car service to take me across the river…but was unsure if my bank account could take the $65 blow, so I stayed.

The next morning, I was exhausted and couldn’t wait to get out of there.  After he got out of the shower, he asked if he could just make out with me for five minutes.  I told him not unless he wore a stop watch around his neck… to which he responded with “That’s awesome.”  During the walk to his car, he announced awkwardly and loudly “So, ahh, sorry about the whole FLACCID PENIS THING” as we passed an unsuspecting man on the sidewalk who did a double take at us.  I told him not to worry, but to perhaps ease up on the Tickle My Pickles in the future.  He dropped me off at the train station and I retreated back to Brooklyn as fast as I could, where I hid from the world for the rest of the day.  Later on, I got a text from him that read “Halfway through teaching my first period how to write an introduction, I was interrupted by a giant gin belch.”  If I had to choose the two most unattractive words a guy could possibly say to me, they would probably be “breast” and “belch.”

After that, Greg and I never hung out again.  A big part of that was the fact that I’m all set on going to Hoboken, maybe for life.  His behavior the last time we were together obviously didn’t help matters either.  But at least if I had been in Manhattan with a man who had consumed too many Tickle My Pickle martinis and was begging to fondle my breasts, it would’ve been much easier to cope.

Activity Partners

7 Jun

Last week, I went on an anger date with a male nurse.  I had had a lot of after-work commitments that week and really just wanted to go home, eat some salmon, and go to bed.  I was also irritated with a few members of the male sex and didn’t have the “Tao te Ching” with me… so you could go as far as to say I was in a foul mood.  The guy I was going out with, “Paul,” told me the bar we were meeting at was in the West Village, but it was actually in SoHo, which added to my contempt for mankind.  All I could remember about his profile was that he was a male nurse, he was looking for “activity partners”, and under his interests he had listed “the equal sign, fudge, and having fun.”  When I read that, I nearly had an asthma attack because I was laughing so hard.

I got there first and waited for him at the bar.  I always make sure I’m early so my date has to find me, not the other way around because it’s awkward.  It was a weird bar that looked like the dining hall at this nature camp I had to go to every year when I went to private school.  From third through seventh grade, I attended what you might call an “alternative” school, where we didn’t change classes, receive grades, or get homework assignments.  Or maybe we did get homework assignments, and I just didn’t do them.  We had couches instead of desks, played a lot of community building games, jumped around inside parachutes, painted cars, recycled, and made wind chimes.  Attending this school during my formative years may be a prime explanation for a lot of my misplaced wacky creativity.  It is also why I can’t do simple multiplication or pick out Massachusetts on a map, but I can play the Ghanaian xylophone.

Paul arrived and I suggested we move to a table to get away from the people at the bar who were sensually feeding each other chicken fingers.  He was nice but kind of boring, medium height, with dark curly hair and a slight New York accent.  He told me that he still lived in the apartment he was raised in, but with roommates instead of family.  How odd.  His head featured an impressive beard (I guess I’m going through a beard phase) and a keen pair of sharp canines.  When he told me he worked in a mental hospital, I couldn’t help but wonder if any of the psychotic patients ever got paranoid about him being a vampire because of his fangs.  He shared that he had recently gone on a long road trip by himself to many of the southern states.  While in Tennessee, a Christian couple had taken him in and attempted to baptize him in the sweet waters of the Mississippi.

I don’t think I really said much because he had so much to say about himself.  He went to school for art and liked to hang out in museums around Manhattan and sketch for hours.  He also did volunteer work, played some sort of sport, and was in a hip hop/funk band.  What didn’t this guy do?  The whole time we were there, he kept talking about how much he wanted to drink because his week had been so stressful…yet he only clocked in at a dainty 1.5 rum and cokes.  After I nearly passed away from fatigue and boredom, I told him it was time for me to head home.  He walked me to the train and I hugged him goodbye like that cousin you don’t know very well but are related to, so you feel like you have to hug them.

At least now I know that I don’t have borderline personality disorder.  A certified male nurse said so.

Moose on the Loose

5 Jun

About a week and a half ago, I went out with a ripe giant.  I had been interested in meeting “Brandon” because his profile said he was 6’3”, in law school, and into a lot of good bands.  I have nothing against ripe giants, in fact, I have even been known to like them.  The only way I can describe him is a show I once watched on Animal Planet called “Moose on the Loose.”

Earlier in the day, I had texted Brandon to confirm our plans that night.  He texted back asking me to call him by 8:30pm to make sure he was awake.  Uh oh.  We were meeting at a dive bar in the Lower East Side.  I decided that I was tired of the outfit I was wearing that day, so, after work, I stopped by a store on the way to the bar and bought a new one.  I made an additional stop for a quick slice before getting into a cab.  En route, I ate my pizza and changed my clothes in the backseat, while the driver made some “ahem” sounds.

All of my pit stops aside, I arrived at the bar about twenty minutes early and texted him “The eagle has landed.”  He texted me back apologizing for making me wait (whatever, I was early) and said he would be right there.  When he arrived, he looked like he had just run through a tunnel of hornets during a rainstorm because he was drenched in sweat.  He sat down next to me at the bar, splaying his long limbs out in an attempt to cool off.  It was then that I noticed that his fly was gaping open, revealing his cotton-covered weiner bundle peeking out like a mole emerging from it’s mole hole.  I couldn’t look him in the eye because I knew I would look at his crotch and start laughing.  It took all I had to keep a straight face while listening to him talk about how his exams were going and some bands he thought I should check out.

He was very squirmy… He never fully sat still and was always combing his fingers through his beard or pulling on his blonde curls.  I told him I liked the bar he had selected and commented on a Ken doll that was posed sexually over some liquor bottles behind the bar.  He replied “I can make that pose for you later, if you play your cards right.”  I could feel his bull knuckle winking at me.  We went over our favorite Beatles covers (an important topic).  He chose the Blood, Sweat, and Tears version of “Got to Get You into My Life” and The Breeders “Happiness is a Warm Gun.”  I countered him with Nancy Sinatra “Run For Your Life” and Bryan Ferry “You Won’t See Me.”

Eventually, he went to the bathroom and returned with his pants fully zipped.  Whew.  After that, he described his worst OKCupid date to me and he definitely had the best one I’ve heard so far.  Apparently he took this girl to a concert on their first date and, after mentioning that she had forgotten to take her bipolar meds, she disappeared for almost an hour.  When she materialized, she was incredibly drunk and asked him to take her back to his place.  Once there, she got into a screaming fight with her mom on the phone, who was allegedly threatening to send the police over to Brandon’s apartment to pick her up and arrest him for kidnapping.  Way better than the usual OKCupid horror stories I hear from guys which are more along the lines of “She wouldn’t stop calling me,” “She said she was 27, but ended up being 50,” or “She asked me to do heroin with her.”

Throughout the conversation, he had been moving closer and closer to me and began awkwardly pawing at my leg and my back.  He was still sweating profusely and, at one point, the jolly butch bartender came over with a fan and aimed it directly at him, giving me the thumbs up.  He looked like a dog hanging its head out of a car window.  He suggested we get some food and said he knew of a good Venezuelan restaurant nearby.  I acquiesced, mainly because I was getting hit by some of the sweat beads that the fan was blowing off him.  We walked about seven blocks and got to the restaurant with five minutes to spare before they closed.  Beard-deep in an arepa, he kept scooting towards me until I was afraid the cheese that was nestled in his facial hair was going to land on my shoulder.  This was turning into a messy endeavor.  I got up to get a glass of water and sat back down on the other side of the booth.  He followed suit and when he sat down (next to me again) he said in a sexy voice “Are you going to make me chase you across this booth?”  I have to admit, the arepa WAS pretty good, but I feared for what was coming next.

Sure enough, once we were outside again, Brandon asked me to come up to his apartment, which he bragged was a 5’ by 9’ room with one window overlooking a wall…and which conveniently was right across the street.  I told him I had yoga in the morning and needed to head home.  I don’t think I even got my full sentence out before he grabbed me and started kissing me aggressively, his sweaty beard smothering my face.  I wanted to say “You stop that this instant, young man!”  But I am really bad at this stuff so I said “Wow, ok.  Yeah, let’s do this again some time.”  I stopped briefly en route to the subway, to watch part of a silent film that was being shown on the side of a building and to collect myself.  I got back to Brooklyn smelling like the sweat of a hundred beards and feeling like I had just gotten arepa’ed.  I washed my face twice that night and promised not to return to the Lower East Side for at least a fortnight.